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Where, O where then at all dwelleth she?

Alas since from Eden sin-driven,

Man here all in vain would her see ;

Her sole, chosen dwelling is Heaven.

LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM JUST PRESENTED TO A FAIR FRIEND.

FRIENDSHIP'S gift so fair to see,

What can I say worthy thee?
Thou'rt a tablet far too fair

For aught else than fancies rare

Tablet where, in sequence bright,

Rare gems of thought shall yet have place,

As, one by one, the stars at night

Come out, adorning heaven's face.

Book of beauty, let me shew

What should grace thy page of snow,

What the themes on which may turn

Thoughts that breathe and words that burn."

Minstrel fancies "short and sweet"
Here may find admittance meet:
Patriots struggling for the right
Here, in verse, may win the fight;
Tyrants who the world would thrall
Here, in verse, unpitied fall,—
Here, too, may the bondsman's wrong
Find a fitting voice in song;

Here the artist's pencil may
All things beautiful pourtray;
Here the moralist may teach,
Here the lover may beseech,
To the idol of his heart

Doing homage like a true man ;

Never pleases minstrel art

More than when the theme is woman.

Woman-pearl of priceless worth!
Nature's purest, fairest birth!
Woman-to whose grace is given
To make Earth almost a Heaven!

Never in this book be penned
Aught that virtue may offend;
Let the knave in friendship's guise
Elsewhere vent his flatteries.

Dullards, pray keep distance wide;
Hands off, all ye slaves of pride !
Wits whose pens are dipt in gall,
Misanthropes and sceptics all,

Aught that ye might have to spare her
Least of all would Jeanie care for.

Type of infancy ere yet

Thought has its impression set
On the brow that may be found

Yet with the proud laurel crowned,

Joyful as a mother may

Watch the dawn of reason's ray
Growing into perfect day,
Thus may thy fair mistress see
All that she may wish in thee
Growing, till thy glowing pages
Prove thee all her heart presages.

LINES WRITTEN ON A SIMILAR OCCASION.

WHAT though my muse be more at home
On mountain side than drawing-room,
At fair Eliza's sweet request

I still would gladly do my best
To leave within this casket rare
Some proof of my regard for her—
A rustic offering fondly flung

Where "orient pearls at random strung"
In rich profusion haply may

Appear at no far future day.

Fain would I write to please the Fair-
Shall War then be my theme?—the glare
Of murdering steel-the onset dire―
The rampart storm'd-the town on fire?
The nobler strife on battle plain—

The "glorious" wounds-the thousands slain?
What though that widows-orphans, weep
For thousands left in death's cold sleep,

In "Glory's bed" they rest! then why
Such tears for fellows paid to-die?
Kings must have sport, and warriors fame-
Shall war, then, be my thrilling theme?
Ah! no-Eliza would not choose

To have me sing of scenes like these;
Far other themes, the minstrel knows,
Her gentle bosom best may please.

Lady, small joy 'twould thee afford
To sing thee of the festive board;
The venal muse's flattering strain
Applause of thine may never gain;
Nor wouldst thou praise, if I should try
With shaft satiric to annoy
My erring brother passing by :
The evils which we cannot cure

But by inflicting greater, sure
'Tis best in silence to endure.

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Were mine the Harp of Ettrick old,
Here would Tradition's tales be told-
The sheeted Ghost, that faithless swain
Would shun, but ever shuns in vain ;
The Witch upon her midnig.ht broom;
The Seer foretelling death and doom ;
The Fairy fold in manties green,
In this blind age but seldom seen.
Yet, to our fathers known full well,
And seen

more oft than tongue can tell?

Fond strains that mourn the early lost, O come in all your sweetness here; Of tender memories wake a host,

And let each memory claim a tear. Here also be the soul-born song That kindles at the Bondsman's wrong, And bids him, as our brother, be, O'er all the earth, a brother free.

And here be, too, the strain that tells Of woodlands green and ferny dells— The mountain tow'ring in its pride, The torrent dashing down its side, The heather blooming on its breast, The red-deer in its corries chased, mist curling round its brow, The lake, reflecting all, below

The

gray

Yes, ev'n in fancy but to see

My Highland Home is bliss to me!

But more than all, of themes most dear, Let woman's love find favour hereLove! richest boon to mortals given,

Sun of my life's oft-clouded sky! I would not give its anguish even For any other earthly joy. Without its magic power, I ween, Earth's sweetest songs had never been, And even this poor lay I sing

Were poorer still, but that it has

The inspiration following,

The wish to win Eliza's praise.

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